


Whipped

by kookaburrito



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, Praise Kink, Riding, Service Kink, Sex, Whipped!Crowley, acts of service
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-11
Updated: 2019-08-11
Packaged: 2020-08-19 06:54:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,462
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20205562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kookaburrito/pseuds/kookaburrito
Summary: Aziraphale has got Crowley absolutely whipped. Crowley doesn’t mind, because at night, the roles are reversed and it’s Aziraphale’s turn to oblige Crowley’s every whim.





	Whipped

“Would you mind getting me those books from the top shelf, honey?” Aziraphale asks, rather innocently, and fair enough, it is a small enough request.

A few months ago Crowley would have at least grumbled something, but now he just gets up from the couch, walks to the shelf in question, and picks up the books closest to him. Brings them over to the armchair, where Aziraphale is snuggled in a duvet, reading.

“No, darling, I need the blue one, and that small dictionary, further back,” Aziraphale explains, and Crowley makes the same journey to the bookshelf, puts down the books, picks the other ones and then comes back.

He hands the books over to Aziraphale.

“Here you go, angel,” he says, not a hint of irritation in his voice, and Aziraphale gives him a warm secret smile, that leaves Crowley a slight tingling sensation in his fingertips.

The look they exchange is worth a thousand words.

He knows what this is about, and he loves it. This game they’ve been playing… It’s been going on for at least a thousand years. But now that they’re a couple, the game has taken into an indeed fascinating turn.

On those nights when he couldn’t sleep, Crowley had plenty of time to think it over. How did it work exactly, this rhythm between them? Someone told him a story once, about the five love languages. And Crowley was beginning to think that there was something to it.

Crowley knows that he’s not good with expressing his affection with words. He has tried making a confession that night in the bookshop, after the dinner at the Ritz, but all that came was an insecure mumble, and Aziraphale was wise enough to just cut him off with a passionate, one of those just-shut-up-and-kiss-me kisses.

Another thing Crowley’s not good at is casual physical touches. He loves the sex, can’t get enough of it, he loves holding hands and hugs, but there is that ever-present awkwardness about initiating something of the sort. Sometimes he gets too embarrassed to hug Aziraphale first, especially if the angel is engrossed in some task at his desk. It should be easy enough, to come from behind, wrap him in a soft hug, lay his head on the angel’s shoulder. But just thinking about it makes Crowley anxious. Usually when there’s an overwhelming urge to touch, Crowley turns into a snake. Sliding on Aziraphale’s shoulders is wonderful, not to mention those pleasant scratches under his scaley chin that the angel gives him. These kind of touches are comforting, and he can calm himself down while curling up in his angel’s lap. 

Quality time is important as well, but Crowley is also content during those times when he naps on a couch in Aziraphale’s bookshop, while the angel reads, and they don’t say a single word to each other for hours and hours. Usually on such days there’s that ever-present London rain outside, that Crowley actually invented. Everything just slows down. It can’t be his love language, since for actual quality time you’d have to look each other in the eyes and talk at length. For Crowley, knowing that Aziraphale is safe nearby is good enough.

Presents are great, and Crowley is aware that Aziraphale loves them. Especially those unexpected boxes of chocolates (particularly Belgian seashells), flowers, any kind, first editions of old books with autographs, and Crowley figured, huh, maybe this is the one. When they finally got together, he proceeded to buy his angel vintage jazz records with romantic songs, exquisite dinners, new clothes, a new cologne, and everything he could think of that could make Aziraphale light up. Aziraphale accepted every gift with a blush and immense gratitude.

But then.

There was another love language that made Aziraphale react like nothing else. And not only the angel, it made Crowley mad with love too. And how could Crowley not notice, when Aziraphale has been hinting at it for at least a thousand years? Making him play the same old game. Laying in bed, Crowley remembers those little signs, the small things. That stain in the paintball ground the few days before the Armageddon’t? The batting of eyelashes, whenever it came to doing some small miracle, like making Hamlet famous? Rescuing Aziraphale from the Bastille? 

When he came to the conclusion that this was in fact it, Crowley was delighted. Because this was also the love language he loved speaking the most. Being of service for his one true love, satisfying their needs and showing love with actions and not words.

The whole ordeal was enhanced after the face swapping incident. They decided to be more prudent, since miracles and demonic interventions could be traced in Heaven and Hell, and doing them less would draw away the attention for some time. They agreed that using supernatural intervention should be limited to necessities. 

Soon Crowley found out, doing everything the human way was frustrating, yet, strangely, incredibly arousing when done for Aziraphale.

“Crowley, be a darling, can you make me a cup of tea while you’re there?” Aziraphale asks, even though he could’ve conjured tea in his teacup with a snap of the fingertips. But he just absolutely enjoys when Crowley takes the time and makes it the old-fashioned way, bringing it to Aziraphale in that mug of his with the white wings, and even adding a biscuit on the saucer.

“Crowley, can you give me a lift to the tailor? I want to get my new suit altered today, I wouldn’t want to walk, it might start to rain.” And Crowley drives the Bently to the bookshop and opens the door for Aziraphale while simultaneously opening the umbrella over his head, since the angel is carrying the suit in his hands and it’s indeed started to drizzle outside. 

“Crowley, can you help me with this spider?” Aziraphale gestures to the big spider in the bathroom. Sure, he can’t kill him by himself. His angel would never get his hands dirty or kill a living creature. And Crowley obliges. 

“Crowley, I really need a hand. I’m stuck,” and of course, all the buttons, all the laces, Crowley knows by heart. Undoing them and redoing them, and lacing up and unzipping and unbuttoning, fastening belts, fighting with laces, zippers, buttonholes. In particular, he loves doing Aziraphale’s bowtie (so close to his neck), clipping suspenders (touching his waist), and helping him with the cufflinks (flicking a finger over the wrists).

He truly understands what it’s about one night when they’re late for the opera, and he helps Aziraphale with the shoelaces on his beautiful lacquered white shoes. Aziraphale didn’t even ask him to, he just let out a huff of annoyance when he noticed the untied shoelaces, and Crowley sank to his knees immediately. And when Crowley looks up, all pleased by the work he’s done, he sees Aziraphale watching him intently, with his eyes full of love, and his cheeks pink, lips slightly parted.

In that moment, Crowley understands it all.

Sun and moon, good and evil, black and white, day and night, they switch places, they can’t exist one without the other, they live in a state of constant balance. And every little errand Aziraphale asks him to do, every favor, every effort is going to be repaid to the demon in full.

They are barely inside the bedroom, and Aziraphale comes closer to him, his voice rich with longing. Crowley has seen the way his hands fidgeted on the drive home, how he kept stealing glances.

“Darling, what do you want me to do for you?” Aziraphale asks softly, reaching for Crowley’s tie and undoing it carefully. His touches are full with a feather-like softness.

“You’ve been such a good boy for me, running all those errands, helping me so much,” Aziraphale almost purrs, coming closer, touching Crowley’s chest and shoulders, giving him a slight massage, and Crowley melts a little under those touches.

“Tell me, sweetheart, I will do anything for you,” Aziraphale whisper hotly in his ear, nuzzling his neck, playing with his hair.

Crowley doesn’t say anything, he just pulls Aziraphale closer into a hug, and whimpers a little at how they’re flushed together, from thigh to hip to chest, and Aziraphale is so soft everywhere. Crowley’s too overwhelmed to talk.

“Come on, I want to please you,” Aziraphale tugs at his hair, his eyes so naughty, devouring Crowley and making him feel like he’s the king of the world. Then he licks his lips and smiles, a devilish smile that brings nothing but trouble.

“I’ll be your bitch tonight,” he whispers, looking Crowley right in the eyes, full of intent and desire.

Crowley sharply inhales, he’ll never get used to Aziraphale saying those kind of words, talking dirty, being _bad_. He already feels himself getting hard.

Aziraphale starts to remove their shirts impatiently, working the buttons quickly, much quicker than Crowley could have done it. Then, pushes Crowley onto the bed, and climbs on top of him.

Crowley knows, he can ask for anything - absolutely anything - and Aziraphale would give it to him. Last time, in a moment of heat he growled _want you against the headboard_ and Aziraphale obliged immediately sinking on his hands and knees, offering himself to Crowley without a second thought. Another time he practically begged _want your mouth on me_ and Aziraphale’s pretty pink lips enveloped him in a second, licking him, sucking him to a hot mess. Yet another night he confessed _want you to take me roughly_ and later had delicious bruises on his hips for days. 

But tonight, Crowley wants something else. He just wants to be taken care of.

“Want you to ride me,” Crowley manages, eyes heavy-lidded with arousal. He can’t help it, he’s already losing control at the visuals, and hisses hotly, “Pleas-s-se.”

“No need to beg,” Aziraphale clasps Crowley’s hands behind his head, pinning him to the bed “I will gladly ride you into the mattress, darling, ah, feel you come deep inside of me.”

Aziraphale rubs against him, clearly hard, and Crowley moans. He might be in actual heaven. 

Aziraphale takes an obscene amount of time just kissing Crowley’s neck, licking at his ear, caressing his chest. He proceeds to take one of his nipples in his mouth, sucking on it, while his hands undo Crowley’s pants, and take them off carefully. He doesn’t let Crowley touch him. Crowley loves how attentive Aziraphale is in moments like this, he’s sure not to push too much, working him up slowly. He’s truly at Crowley’s service, and almost forgets about his own needs.

And then they’re both fully naked, and Aziraphale proceeds to kiss him gently on that soft spot where the jaw meets the neck, the spot he knows drives Crowley crazy, and simultaneously begins to stroke him to full hardness, gently but insistently caressing him. Whenever the cold of the ring on Aziraphale’s finger touches his overheated flesh, it makes Crowley hiss with sensitivity.

“You’re such a good boy to me, my dear, I’m going to make you feel so good,” Aziraphale whispers in Crowley’s ear, watching him closely. And then, when Crowley starts to whimper softly with want, Aziraphale preps himself with one quick miracle, and gently straddles his demon, making sure not to put his whole weight on top. 

Aziraphale carefully sinks down on Crowley, taking him fully inside, adjusting him in that tight wet heat, and Crowley might think he’s going to discorporate right at this moment, oh and what a sweet death that’ll be.

“You feel-” Crowley doesn’t have any words to describe it, he’s already completely gone. And oh, opening his eyes and seeing Aziraphale on top of him in his full glory, impossibly hard, is enough to make his hips shoot upward.

“Shh, relax,” Aziraphale says, giving Crowley a small smile, and guiding Crowley’s hands on his hips. He gently sinks down again, picking up a deliberately slow rhythm, making Crowley feel so impossibly good. His fingers sink into the soft flesh of Aziraphale, loving every inch of him, squeezing lightly. Aziraphale closes his eyes, lips parted, and Crowley realizes he has another wish he needs his angel to fulfill right at this moment.

“Touch yours-self,” Crowley demands, voice hoarse with need, and Aziraphale can’t help but look at him, eyes blown with desire and need. Crowley loves to watch Aziraphale pleasuring himself, stroking himself just the way he loves it, _being of service_ to himself, and Aziraphale loves putting on a show, and they both know how much the other one gets off on it.

And Aziraphale obliges, bringing up his hand with the ring on the pinky to stroke himself, eyes shutting again with the overwhelming sensation.

“You love this, don’t you?” Aziraphale asks, devilish, absolutely loving the fact that he can please Crowley this way too. It gets too much too quick, and Aziraphale can’t control himself anymore, can’t help but pick up a quicker rhythm, shifting his hips and sinking down, fucking into his own fist and sinking back on Crowley, while they both moan with the intense pleasure of it all.

“Love being inside me? Good boy,” Aziraphale’s breath is shaky, as Crowley begins fucking into him harder, faster, so impossibly deeper, and the obscene slapping sound of skin on skin fills the room.

Crowley’s hand shoots up and strokes the side of Aziraphale’s soft cheek, his fingers finding their way into Aziraphale’s mouth past his pretty pink lips, and Aziraphale takes them in at once, sucks on them like they’re the most delicious dessert, licking and swallowing around them.

“Come with me,” Crowley asks, feeling himself close, impossibly close in that tight heat inside of Aziraphale, fucking him harder, faster, loving how quickly Aziraphale’s hand begins to move on himself.

And Aziraphale obliges on command, as always, coming in hot streaks on Crowley’s chest, and Crowley comes too, deep inside of his angel, filling him up with his come.

Aziraphale collapses on the bed next to Crowley, hugging him close, both of them breathing incredibly hard. 

“You’re divine,” Crowley sighs contented, wrapping himself even closer in Aziraphale’s embrace, “Love what you do to me.”

Aziraphale kisses Crowley sweetly, for a long time, trying to convey all the love he feels for his demon in that moment.

“You know I’ll do anything for you, my dear,” Aziraphale says softly. 

But then the angel’s expression suddenly changes, and he asks mischievously, “Will you miracle me a glass of water? I’m extremely thirsty.”

Crowley rolls his eyes, and snaps his fingers, fetching the glass of water out of thin air.

“Just enough of a bastard to be worth loving,” he mutters, as Aziraphale beams at him lovingly with an innocent expression of a true angel.


End file.
